


Adventures of UNCLE

by SydneyMo



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8517622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyMo/pseuds/SydneyMo
Summary: This story is a series of one-shots, mostly following Illya and Gaby and their feelings for one another. Fluff abound!





	1. The Snake

**_Person A finds something in their bed (something they’re scared of, spiders for example) and can’t sleep in it anymore so they go to person B to sleep with them._ **

Gaby winced as she stretched the muscles out in her back. It had been a long day for UNCLE and she was glad to be back in her chic hotel room. She and Illya were posing as a couple again, this time married, and so shared a room quite similar to the suite they had in Rome. It wasn’t big, but Illya didn’t have to duck through doorways and Gaby was pleasantly surprised to find that the bathroom boasted both a shower stall and a bathtub, so there wasn’t much to complain about.

Illya sat almost motionless, staring at the chess board in front of him and occasionally reaching out to move one piece or the other. A few weeks earlier, Illya had offered to teach Gaby how to play. After 10 games in almost as many minutes, a red-faced and impatient Gaby had stormed off leaving a trail of German expletives behind her; since then, chess had been a solitary activity.

Gaby stretched her arms over her head, then behind her back, trying to work out the soreness from the day. They had gotten the evidence they needed relatively easy, Gaby serving as a honeypot while an agitated Illya and a bemused Solo snuck into their mark’s office and snapped pictures of the files they needed. After a quick pull of the fire alarm, all three were able to escape undetected.

A yawn forced Gaby’s eyes closed as her hand went to cover her mouth.

“Going to bed, Chop Shop?” Illya asked, using an affectionate nickname he had for her, while not looking up from his game.  
“Yes, long day.” Illya nodded absently and moved his white queen to take a rook from the other side while Gaby shuffled off to their room. Chess was soothing to him. The game was easy to learn but hard to master and required patience and dedication. It helped him learn to calm his mind and see every possible outcome which was helpful in everyday life, especially when he flew into one of his rages. It hadn’t slipped past either Illya or Solo that they happened less and less often the more time he spent with Gaby.

Without warning, a blood-curdling scream came from the bedroom. Illya looked up, startled, then flew out of his chair, grabbing his gun from a side table, and rushed to Gaby, his chess game all but forgotten. Banging the bedroom door open, Illya took a quick sweep of the room and saw nothing out of the ordinary aside from Gaby standing with her hands over her mouth, white as a sheet, and huddled next to the bathroom door. Glancing at the windows one last time and slipping his gun into his pocket, Illya hurried over to her side and kneeled next to her, placing his large hands on her small shoulders.

“Gaby, what is it?” he searched her face and looked her up and down checking for injuries. “What’s wrong?” Slowly, Gaby moved her hands from her mouth and silently pointed to the bed that she had claimed next to the window. The sheets were in disarray as if she had suddenly leaped from it. He was about to question her further when a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention; there was something in Gaby’s bed.

Illya crept towards the mattress, a hand resting on his side ready to pull out his gun if necessary. Gaby, the color starting to return to her face, followed closely behind him, poking her head around his shoulder to see what was happening. He glanced back at her and she nodded. Illya yanked the sheet away and there, curled up at the foot of her bed, was a green garden snake no more than a foot in length. Its head moved up and glanced between Illya and Gaby curiously before settling back down in the crevice it had made for itself.

“A snake?” Gaby whispered, afraid to break the silence and startle it. She had never seen a snake in person before. Working in a garage in East Berlin, she had seen her fair share of sewer rats and all kinds of wiggly bugs that would send other girls screaming, but snakes didn’t frequent the German city’s streets. Illya looked just as confused as Gaby felt.

“It is definitely a snake,” Illya commented, frowning. Gaby glanced at him, bemused.  
“What’s it doing here? And more importantly, why is it in my _bed_?” Illya shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and stood up straight again. Gaby hadn’t moved from her position a few inches behind the Russian.  
“I do not know.” Illya finally said.  
“Well, is it venomous?” she asked glancing worriedly at the snake again thinking that if she looked away for even a second, it would fling itself at her.  
Illya stifled a chuckle. “I do not think so. But I should call concierge, let him know we have unwelcome guest.” Illya started towards the living room but Gaby reached out and grabbed the back of his sweater with both hands.

“We can’t just leave it here! What if it moves?” Illya glanced at the lethargic snake who seemed to be quite cozy in its bed near the radiator.  
“Then you stay here and watch it and I will call concierge.” He started towards the door again, but Gaby was unrelenting.  
“But-” she paused looking again at the garden snake.  
“Yes?”  
“But,” Gaby started again but stopped to gnaw worriedly at her bottom lip. Illya seemed to sense her nervousness and didn’t press further.  
“What if you call and I watch our green friend, yes?” Gaby slowly released her death-grip on Illya’s sweater and nodded.

Illya could hear Gaby talking in low tones in the other room as he sat down on the other bed, keeping one eye on the snake. It hadn’t moved since Illya had disturbed it, other than to move closer to the radiator; it was probably cold. Illya remembered that snakes were cold-blooded and needed an outside source for warmth. Gaby’s bed was stationed in a perfect spot sitting closest to the heater and the window where it more than likely entered from. The more he thought about it, the more amusing the snake became to him. It hadn’t done anything wrong except scare poor Gaby when her unclothed foot touched it as she climbed into bed. It didn’t seem worried or even fazed at all when Illya ripped its world out from around him. Even now, as Illya watched it with interest, it kept its own eyes on the Russian, not out of fear, but avid curiosity.

Gaby walked into the bedroom with a glass of clear liquid, vodka, Illya mused, in one hand and an annoyed expression crossing her face.  
“He says no one can come get it until tomorrow. We have to leave it here until animal control opens again. They don't have any spare rooms either, so we're stuck in here with that thing.” She took a large gulp from her glass and glanced back at her bed.  
“Did it move?”  
“No,” Illya said, standing up and stretching. “I think it fell asleep.” He walked to the dresser at the other end of the room, taking Gaby’s glass from her and placing it on his dresser. She hummed in annoyance but made no move to take it back, her eyes still fixed on the snake.  
“That is enough for tonight, I think,” Illya commented. “You may sleep in other bed, I’ll take couch.” He opened the drawer and pulled out his nightshirt and pants, and walked towards the bathroom.

“No,” Gaby said, eyeing the snake distastefully. “You take your bed; I’ll sleep in the other room.” Illya looked at her but shrugged and closed the bathroom door behind him. If Gaby wanted to be far away from their new friend, he wasn’t going to stop her.

Twenty minutes later, Illya emerged from the bathroom, showered and dressed for bed. He poked his head out the bedroom door and saw Gaby sound asleep on the living room couch, breathing heavily. The radio was on, playing news stories in a foreign language he didn’t know but supposed Gaby didn’t either; Illya had learned that Gaby didn't like complete silence when she slept. News in another language was just enough noise to lull her to sleep without distracting her. He rubbed a towel across the back of his neck to wipe up stray water droplets from his hair as he walked back to Gaby’s bed and looked down at the snake. It hadn’t moved from its little home in the blankets.

Illya folded the towel and placed it on a rack in the bathroom before climbing into his own bed and turning off the lights. He was just drifting off when a sound coming from the living room caught his attention; Gaby had wandered back into the bedroom and, keeping one eye on her occupied bed, walked around to the furthest side of Illya’s and pushed his shoulder in a silent attempt to move him over.

“The snake has not moved, Chop Shop,” Illya said, not unkindly. “It won’t bother you tonight. Go back to sleep.”  
“I know,” Gaby said impatiently. “But I’m cold and the couch is too small so I’m sharing with you.” She stated and pushed his shoulder once more. Under any normal circumstances, Illya would have protested and encouraged her to take the bed and he would move to the living room but since their mission in Istanbul, things hadn’t exactly been normal between them. They towed the line between teammate and romantic relationship quite frequently, and they both seemed unable to remember what was appropriate and what wasn’t.

Yawning, Illya moved over and pulled the blankets up in silent acquiescence and Gaby smiled. She buried herself up to her neck under Illya’s sheets and rolled to her side, her back facing Illya.

“Thank you.” She murmured into her pillow, quiet enough that Illya wasn’t entirely sure she had said anything at all. Her breathing slowed and within a few minutes she was asleep again. He shifted into a comfortable position slowly, careful not to let a hand or a leg brush up against her. It was in vain however for as soon as he found a comfortable position and let his eyes close once more, Gaby mumbled something in her sleep, rolling over, and her arm smacked him across the face.

“Oohf!” He groaned and reached up to remove her hand, trying not to chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. Trying to fit all 6’5” of an ex-KGB agent onto a hotel bed was one thing, but adding someone even as small as Gaby made him think that the bed would break for sure.

Illya smiled slightly and pressed his lips against the back of Gaby’s hand without opening his eyes before placing it gently on her side.

“Goodnight Little Chop Shop Girl.”


	2. Puzzles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While UNCLE rests up at a safe house, they realize quite quickly how boring civilian life can be.

UNCLE was tucked quietly in a safe house in the rainy English countryside while awaiting a briefing from Waverly. It had been three days since their last mission, a rather dangerous one involving multiple explosions and close calls, and since normally the trio got just over 36 hours to rest and prep for the next one they were all feeling relieved yet slightly antsy.   
Solo, nursing a broken nose, had spent most of the past three days poking at his bruises and finding ways to annoy Illya. The latter had spent his time grumbling in Russian both about Napoleon and the large slice across his back and attempting to play chess with pieces missing. Gaby, however, having received the least amount of injuries with only a few scrapes and bruises was simply bored. 

“How can you even concentrate on that stupid game?” Solo asked, gesturing to the half-complete chess board in front of Illya.   
“Is more difficult with you talking.”  
“You’re missing pieces.”   
“I am trying to concentrate. Why do you not go into town and leave me alone?” 

Solo sighed dramatically and threw himself over the back of the couch to sit next to an increasingly annoyed Illya.   
“Would that I could, Peril, but orders are orders and Waverly has given us strict instructions to stay here until further notice. Anyways, even with my dashing good looks, despite my broken nose, and even with my sparkling personality, I couldn’t leave; this rainstorm has flooded the bridge out of here. So, you’re stuck with me.” Illya stifled a groan. 

“Napoleon, just leave him be.” Gaby’s voice came filtered through the kitchen before she appeared in the sitting room clutching a mug of tea as she walked toward the two. “Even if the bridge wasn’t flooded, your nose would be enough to scare all the women within a 12-mile radius.” Napoleon snorted.   
“You seem fine in my presence.”  
“I’ve seen you in worse states.” Gaby challenged and sat in an armchair opposite her partners, sipping her tea quietly. Solo sat back on the couch and sighed, eyeing the clock on the mantel above the fireplace before glancing at Illya out of the corner of his eye. Gaby raised an eyebrow in his direction, but he ignored her, slowly leaning towards Illya’s chessboard; Gaby tensed and gripped the handle of her mug tighter warning Solo with her eyes not to do anything stupid. He didn’t listen.

“So, when you play yourself and finish the game, does it count as winning or losing?” Illya stood at Napoleon’s words and flipped the chess table over, roaring in pain when a few of the stitches on his back ripped open. He stomped off to the room he claimed in the safe house, and slammed the door behind him, causing the frame to shake and shudder.  
Gaby gave Solo a reproachful look, “Now you’ve done it.”  
He tutted, smirking. “Being cooped up here for three days has caused all sorts of tensions. He would have blown up eventually.”  
“He wouldn’t have gotten upset at all had you not said anything.”  
“It’s boring here, Teller. What else would you have me do? Play games like our Russian friend?” Gaby cast her eyes up at the ceiling and stood, hands on her hips.   
“Well, why don’t you go into the kitchen and cook us something? Try not to make it smell like feet.”  
“Expensive feet!” Napoleon smartly reminded her before marching into the tiny safe house kitchen, grumbling under his breath.  
********  
Illya glanced at his bare back in the mirror over his shoulder; his shirt was speckled with blood where it had touched the broken stitches and was now laying in a crumpled heap next to the door of his room where he had tossed it. Only three out of eleven individual stitches had snapped, but even so, he knew he needed to repair them for it to heal properly.   
A knock sounded at his door, tentative and quiet.

“Illya?” Gaby’s voice sounded muffled through the wood. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom for your back, and some fresh towels if you want to take a shower.” He heard her soft footsteps fade as she walked away, not waiting for a reply. She knew better than to bother him when he was still “seeing red”, even if it had been a few moments since his outburst. He would never hurt her, they both knew that, but there was only so much furniture Waverly would pay for and he was still on their case about the breakage in the last safe house.  
********  
About twenty minutes later, Illya emerged from the bathroom, back re-stitched and face freshly shaven. After their mission in Istanbul, both Gaby and Napoleon had been shocked to discover Illya was entirely capable of stitching up even the hardest to reach wounds; despite the term, there wasn’t much comradery in the KGB and he had quickly learned to take care of himself.   
Illya paused, hearing something behind him. He turned and poked his head around the corner of the bathroom to see Gaby, her back to him, attempting to reach the top shelf of the linen closet. It was only a few centimeters out of her reach but a few centimeters were enough. 

“Do you need help?” Gaby, surprised, jumped at his voice possibly high enough to reach whatever it was she needed, her hand on her chest.  
“Mein Gott, Illya!” He raised an eyebrow at her reaction.  
“Did I startle you?”  
“Yes.” She huffed in annoyance, turning back to the closet. “There’s something up there, up near where you found the chess set. I noticed it when I got you your towel. I’m trying to reach it but-”  
“Is too high.” Illya finished for her, reaching up and plucking the small blue box she had gestured to. He glanced down at it; the front of the box depicted a cottage in a forest with animals and a small creek running through the scene. A puzzle, Illya realized, before handing Gaby her prize.  
“Thank you.” She offered him a small smile before turning and walking to the sitting room.   
********  
Napoleon had righted the coffee table and Gaby, sitting cross-legged and her back against the couch cushions, had her elbow propped against it, chin in hand, as she worked on the puzzle. She had the border completed and most of the right corner but was busy sorting the pieces hoping to find some that fit together. Solo had taken Gaby’s advice to heart and was busy cooking up something that, to Gaby’s delight, smelled wonderful while Illya was putting the chess pieces he had tossed back into their wooden container.

“This is fun for you?” Illya asked suddenly. Gaby, only half paying attention, placed a piece near its mates.  
“Hmm?”  
“This puzzle, you find it entertaining, yes?”  
“It keeps me occupied.” She said lightly, placing another piece in its proper spot. “It’s a bit like chess.” Illya scoffed, closing the lid on the set and shaking his head.  
“I think not. Chess stimulates mind, makes one think of all possible outcomes. This,” he gestured to the semi-completed picture in front of her, “is to satisfy children while their parents are away.”  
Gaby’s head snapped up. “You think I’m a child?”  
“No, I did not say that,” Illya said hastily, trying to find a way to rephrase. “I said is not like chess.”  
“You said it was to occupy children.”

Napoleon’s head appeared from behind the entryway to the kitchen, his ears practically twitching with the promise of entertainment.   
“That is what you said, Peril.” Solo offered.  
“Shut up.” Illya and Gaby instantly responded in unison. Illya’s was more a growl, while Gaby, more patient with her boys than anyone would give her credit for, simply responded as if she were asking about the weather. Napoleon’s hands raised in surrender before he disappeared back into the kitchen.

Illya, hesitant to start an argument, cleared his throat and began again. “I do not see the entertainment in this.”  
“It’s exactly like chess.” Gaby insisted again. Illya sighed, giving in.  
“How is that?” she looked up at him and gave a small smile of satisfaction.  
“There’s an art to it, just like chess. You can start by sorting the pieces by color or by inside and outside pieces or by trying to find the corners.” She gestured to the completed border. “See, I started by sorting out the end pieces and placed the corners in their spots, then worked around it. You’re playing against yourself, trying to find ways all the pieces fit together.”  
Illya leaned forward at her words, looking at the puzzle in front of them. He had to admit it required concentration and skill, maybe not to the same extent as chess but he wasn’t about to say that to Gaby.  
“So,” Illya picked up a piece from the edge of the table and placed it next to the corner, the pieces slipping together perfectly. “This one goes here.”  
“Exactly.” Gaby praised, picking up another piece. “Since the color on this one is similar to the one you just put down, I know that it goes with it. Maybe not exactly,” She demonstrated by showing that the pieces didn’t fit together, “but once you find other pieces, they all come together.” She pushed another piece next to the original and showed that all three fit together in an odd but charming way.   
Illya raised his eyebrows. “I would not have seen that they fit together.”  
“You’ve got to think in different ways, try new tactics.” Gaby picked up another piece, flipped it 180 degrees, and placed it next to the left-hand corner. 

“See?” She looked up expectantly at Illya and gasped when she saw how close he was. Illya had moved over her shoulder to watch her put the pieces together and when she turned her head they were close enough for their noses to touch.   
“Yes, I see,” Illya said quietly.  
“Like chess…”  
“Like chess…” Gaby’s eyes fluttered closed as Illya leaned closer to her, their lips nearly touching.  
“Dinner!” Solo’s voice called out loudly from the kitchen and the two jumped apart, blushing furiously. Illya cleared his throat and stood, offering his hand to her to help her up. Gaby took it, still red, silently cursing herself for suggesting Napoleon cook; he always seemed to have the worst timing. 

Solo, an apron tied around his waist and his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, was busy putting some form of a pasta dish in the center of the small kitchen table around the corner.  
“I did what I could, there’s not much food in this house.” He wiped his hands on his apron and beamed at his German and Russian partners who entered the kitchen as he spoke. “But I don’t think it will be half bad!”  
Illya moved to sit at the head of the table where he could easily see both the door and out the windows; Gaby had questioned him once about it, but he nearly shrugged explaining he liked to see all possible exits and entrances at all times. It was the same reason why, he explained, that whenever they shared a suite together he chose the bed closest to the door: if anyone entered their room uninvited, they would have to get through him first.

Gaby sat down while Napoleon served pasta on three mismatched plates. Illya sniffed the noodles tentatively and grimaced.  
“What is this?”  
“Macaroni and cheese,” Solo explained, grinning at his partner's perplexed expression. “I found a box in the cupboard and doctored it up a bit.”  
“I’ve had it before,” Gabby said, poking at the orange concoction with her fork. “But never from a box.”  
“Must be American invention,” Illya mumbled, taking a small bite. He chewed quickly and swallowed glancing up at his two partners who seemed to actually be enjoying the dehydrated cheese sauce on half-cooked noodles. He pushed his plate away and stood, ignoring the squelching noise the pasta made when his fork moved it.

“Not for you, Peril?” Solo asked amused.  
“No. Thank you.”   
Napoleon shrugged. “More for me and Gabs I guess.” He gestured to Illya’s plate which Gaby took eagerly; even Solo’s odd noodle dish was better than being hungry the rest of the night. Gaby was never a pleasant person when she was hungry.  
Napoleon watched Illya leave the room and scooted his chair closer to Gaby’s once he was out of earshot.  
“So,” he started, chin in hand, his elbow resting on the table and a mischievous grin on his face. “Puzzles are a bit like chess?”  
Gaby inhaled a piece of pasta in surprise and Solo’s laughter could be heard over her coughing; it had seemed he found a new way to fight off his boredom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Hope you all are having a wonderful holiday season!  
> XOXO  
> SMH


	3. An Office Mishap

Being an international super spy was not nearly as thrilling as people would think, Gaby mused. Sure, there was the occasional undercover mission and there were tense moments with gunfire and get-away vehicles, but you never saw James Bond going through a debriefing or writing up reports after a mission; he’d get a suit, get gadgets, get laid, and get the job done. The amount of paperwork a real spy did was almost as lethal as a Nazi-sympathizers bullet.

Gaby, taking a break from her seemingly unending pile of work, was stepping around desks to get a cup of coffee from the break room. She wasn’t even a fan of UNCLE’s coffee, it was too bitter for her, but it allowed her to get up and stretch her tired muscles.   
Solo was nowhere to be seen, probably still being examined by the UNCLE doctors after sustaining three broken ribs and a badly bruised sternum. Their last mission was supposed to be “in-and-out” and even had them stationed in Barcelona for three days; Illya and Gaby were an engaged couple, as was custom at this point, and Solo was Gaby’s protective cousin who had insisted on joining them as they searched for the perfect location for their destination wedding. There wasn’t supposed to be any deep espionage done as they had been saddled with reconnaissance, but one tripped wire later and the entire mission blew up in their faces, quite literally. Solo suffered the worst injuries, having been closest to the explosive when it went off; Illya suffered some minor burns and a broken wrist while Gaby, having been blocked by her two gargantuan partners, needed very little medical attention aside from the removal of shrapnel that had pierced her legs and back. 

That was a week and a half ago. Gaby’s wounds had scabbed over, Napoleon had been discharged from the hospital and was placed on desk duty for at least another week, and Illya was as grumpy as ever with a bulky plaster cast encasing his right arm to the elbow. It amused Gaby to no end to watch him forget he had it on and accidentally smack another agent in the face as he gestured; it had quite a momentum when swung around attached to Illya’s long, muscular arm and had caused two and a half injuries so far. Gaby counted the half as one agent was able to duck out of the way and caught most of the impact on his forehead and not his nose.

“Good morning,” Gaby said politely as she spotted her Russian partner. He was standing in front of the coffee maker in the break room, tapping his fingers against the tabletop impatiently and making the water in the glass beside him shake, but looked up at her entrance.  
“Good morning.” He nodded and his lips turned up slightly at the corner in what passed as a smile before turning back to the machine.  
“What happened to your tie?”   
“My what?” Illya glanced back at her before looking down at his chest where his uneven and askew tie sat. “Is harder with bad wrist, I could not fix it completely.” He admitted. Gaby held back a smile but her eyes twinkled in amusement. 

“I can fix it for you.” She paused, walking forward and plucking at the checkered fabric before glancing up at him. “If you want.” Illya nodded, and let out a small murmur of thanks, leaning down so she could untie the knot. Her fingers felt warm against his skin every time she brushed against him, even with his shirt separating them. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, but it somehow felt much more intimate than fixing a tie should.

“It’s stuck,” Gaby grumbled, attempting to fit her finger through a small opening she had made in the knot. Finally, with a small tug, the tie loosened and Gaby unraveled it from around his neck, ignoring the insistent beeping coming from the coffee maker signaling its completion.

“There.” She smoothed the fabric between her palms, attempting to rid it of wrinkles. “I can tie it, just let me-” Illya reached towards the coffee maker at the same moment Gaby made to turn it off; Illya, not wanting to cause himself or Gaby pain should their hands meet, yanked his arm back in an attempt to stop the collision. Still unused to the weight of the cast, his arm made contact with the water glass beside him, knocking it over, and spilling the contents on the pair before it shattered on the ground. 

Gaby gasped when the cold water hit her front, dampening the fabric on her stomach.  
“I am sorry,” he hurriedly bent down to retrieve the larger pieces of glass as Gaby did the same; Their heads collided and both groaned, clutching their scalps. Illya mumbled a Russian curse under his breath, taking full advantage of Gaby’s novice status in the language, before asking quickly, “Are you alright?”  
“I’m fine.” She shook her head and both stood up straight, Gaby ruefully rubbing her head and mussing her hair.   
“Looks like you got the worst of the water.” She noted, nodding towards the damp patch on the crotch of his gray dress pants before handing him the roll of paper towels that was sitting next to the coffee maker. 

Illya closed his eyes and let out a long breath from his nose. It was barely eleven o’clock and already his day was becoming less than stellar.   
“Thank you.” He finally said, taking the paper towel from her, and dabbing up as much of the water as he could. “Do you want-”  
“It’s fine,” Gaby shook her head, declining the roll, and got down on her knees to retrieve the glass shards.   
“I’ll dry, you can barely tell it’s there.” Gaby hid a smirk, carefully moving the glass to the trash can beside the counters. “Yours, however, is a little more embarrassing.”  
Illya frowned, not understanding. “Is water, it will not stain.” She rolled her eyes. Illya picked up his tie, forgotten, from its place on the countertop and placed it carefully around his neck, making sure he wouldn’t hit anything else.

“Would you still like me to tie it?” Gaby asked, brushing her hands against one another over the trashcan to rid herself of any lingering grime.   
“If it is not too much trouble.”  
“No trouble.” Gaby took Illya’s outstretched hand but before she could fully pull herself up, there was a noise outside and the door to the break room opened, Solo stepping in.  
He laughed at something someone in the office had said before turning and taking in the scene before him; one could only assume what he thought. He glanced between Gaby, still on her knees holding Illya’s hand, her hair slightly tousled, and the Russian in question, undone tie, damp pants and all. His eyebrows shot up his forehead bordering his hairline as he made eye contact with his partners, both seeming to realize at the same moment what Solo was thinking.

“I’ll just come back later then.” He said, a grin lighting his features, before he backed out of the room slowly, closing the door behind him.  
“Sex in the office breakroom?” Solo let out a small chuckle, ignoring the pain in his side as he made his way back to his desk. “What a cliché.”


	4. Glasses Make the Heart Grow Fonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an edit of Illya in glasses. I couldn’t resist! Written hastily on my phone so all mistakes are mine.

“I do not see the humor in this,” Illya grumbled, throwing himself into the nearest armchair. Our three UNCLE agents were stationed in Cairo for a simple reconnaissance mission; their target had yet to show his face outside of his hotel so they had been whiling away the time in their own hotel room across the street reading magazines, playing solitary chess games, and people watching. In Solo’s case, he passed the time by annoying Illya which had become one of his favorite hobbies. 

“Would you two stop this?” Gaby, seated on a comfortable golden chaise lounge, didn’t look up from her book.  
“You don’t even know why I’m laughing.” Solo perched himself behind Gaby, skimming her book over her shoulder.  
“I don’t need to,” she turned the page, “All of your arguments are the same and they always start with you instigating.”

“Me?” Solo placed a hand over his heart in mock offense.  
“No one else is so childish.” Illya couldn’t remain silent during this exchange. 

“I am not being childish, I just think you look ridiculous. I’ve never seen you wear glasses before, are they even prescription or are you just trying to look brainy?”

Gaby looked up at this. Illya in glasses? 

“They are reading glasses to help with small print.”  
“Going blind in your old age?”  
“You are older than me.”  
“And better looking.”

Normally Gaby would have intervened at this point by either throwing her book at Solo or insisting Illya get her something to drink, anything to stop their incessant bickering. Yet, she couldn’t make herself speak. In fact, her throat had gone dry and her lips parted as her jaw dropped. Illya was indeed wearing glasses though Gaby couldn’t agree with Solo’s initial impression. They were black, with thick rimmed frames placed at the bridge of his nose and the magnification was just large enough that his blue eyes appeared bluer and more emotive behind the glass. Anyone else would have looked strange but somehow the ensemble suited Illya well.

“But you’re not even reading!”  
“I was when you interrupted me!”

The raised voices broke Gaby out of her stupor, though not entirely. She was daydreaming about another world where Illya could have been tenured at Oxford or Brown or some other school of high praise; he would teach Russian literature or the language itself. She had never been a fan of classic Russian literature, but with a professor like that she would make an exception. 

“Gaby has deplorable taste in fashion, but even she agrees with me.” Solo sniffed, moving to sit next to the girl in question. “No offense intended of course.”

Gaby started at her name. “What?”  
“I said,” Solo repeated, “that even though you don’t have an eye for proper fashion, you agree with me.”  
“About what?” Gaby was only half paying attention, her eyes still fixed on Illya. He had noticed her gaze and raised one eyebrow above the frame, daring her to agree. 

Solo tsk-ed audibly, plucking the book from Gaby’s limp hands.  
“What are you reading that is more interesting than our conversation?” He turned the book sideways to look at the title. “John Le’Carré? Really? You’d think you’d have enough of spy tales.” Solo seemed, for the first time, to notice just what Gaby thought of Illya’s reading glasses and tried to hide a smirk. 

“Who knows, Peril? Maybe I’ve been outvoted. What do you think of the glasses, Gaby?” Illya seemed also to notice the true nature of Gaby’s gaze and turned the slightest shade of pink, barely perceptible but still noticeable under his pale features. 

“Well,” Gaby cleared her throat when her voice cracked. What had gotten into her? “I don’t really care for glasses.” She snatched the book out of Solo’s hands and buried her face in it once again to be saved from further questioning. “I don’t know why you’re asking me in the first place. If he needs them to read then he needs them to read, just leave him alone.” Gaby fell back into her role of exasperated mother hen, an easier one to play than besotted school girl. 

“Fine, fine,” Solo stood, stretching his back dramatically as he looked between Gaby’s hidden face and Illya’s own that had returned to its normal color.  
“I’ll get something for dinner, shall I?” 

Illya grunted in response picking up the nearest magazine and shoving his nose into the pages, a comical mirror image of Gaby. As Solo left the room, he couldn’t resist one parting shot.  
“I could pull those off. You look more like the Nutty Professor.” The reference went over Illya’s head but the intent was clear. Scowling, Illya threw the magazine down, grabbing the glasses from his face and shoving them forcefully onto the side table. 

“Ignore him, you don’t look like that.” Gaby’s voice was unusually timid, her face still hidden behind her novel though she had long since stopped reading it.  
“Hmm?”  
“I said,” Gaby placed the book gently in her lap. “You don’t look like that.” Illya shrugged, making a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat.  
“I mean, they don’t look bad.”  
“You said you are not a fan of glasses.”  
“On you they’re okay.” Illya couldn’t resist a small smirk before asking “They are okay?”  
“Honest opinion?” He shrugged again. “I think they make you look...dignified. Like a sexy school teacher.” Illya snorted at that; unusual for him, but it appeared a few boundaries were being broken tonight. 

“Here, this will start us off.” Solo had returned with a tray of crackers and different types of cheeses placing them down on the coffee table between Gaby and Illya.  
Gaby munched in a cracker, eyeing Illya carefully.  
“I think you should call his bluff.”  
“What bluff is that? I make many.” Solo seated himself next to Gaby again, arranging his appetizer like it was a masterpiece on a plate.  
“That you’d look better.” Illya could see Gaby was teasing Solo, even if the man in question hadn’t yet come to this realization.  
“No, I don’t think so.” Illya moved the glasses further back on the side table, playing along.  
“Worried I’ll upstage you?” Solo grinned and picked the glasses up, placing them neatly on his face before turning to his partners. 

Illya and Gaby looked at each other, then at Solo. Gaby tapped her chin thoughtfully while Illya pursed his lips, pretending to consider the look.  
“Do you remember that magazine we saw in New York?” Gaby asked Illya, her eyes not leaving Solo’s expectant face.  
“Yes, I believe so. The children’s magazine?”  
“Mmhmm, when we were waiting for Solo to get out of the barber shop.” Napoleon could sense he was about to become the butt of a joke and folded his arms across his chest, glaring at his friends who were both suppressing grins.  
“Do you remember that character in one of the stories?”  
“The reporter?”  
“That’s the one!”

Solo glanced back and forth between them, brows furrowed.  
“What are you talking about?”  
“I think you were right, Illya.”  
“He was right about what?” Solo released his arms and tapped his foot impatiently.  
“No no, you came to conclusion first.” He waved her credit away.  
“What are you two talking about?”  
“Either way, we were both correct in our assumption.”  
“WHAT assumption?”  
“Solo, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but when you wear those glasses you look almost exactly like-“  
“Like what?” 

“You look exactly like Clark Kent.” 

Solo’s cries of protest were drowned out by Gaby’s laughter and Illya’s soft rumbling chuckle. It had been a long time since he had laughed, he seldom indulged in such frivolities, but at Solo’s expense he was willing to make an exception.


	5. Healing Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With spying comes struggling but luckily they have each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I really need to stop writing chapters at 3 in the morning. Because then I want to publish them right away and have to explain, yet again, that all the mistakes you find are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Sorry for how jumbled this chapter feels, it’s a bit different from the other stories I write! It kind of got away from me and morphed into something completely different than I had planned.

It felt heavy. Like an invisible weight settled on her chest keeping her from taking a deep breath. The UNCLE chiropractor had insisted that her migraines stemmed from an inability to breathe correctly and overactive adrenal glands. Chronic stress. Insomnia. 

Medical terms for trying too hard to stay alive for too long.

Sleep had evaded her at the appropriate times. She wouldn’t sleep until 4am, her alarm jolting her awake a mere two hours later. The train rides lended themselves to fatigue, sitting crushed against a window until she stepped onto the platform making her way to headquarters. Coffee was her friend then, an attempt to drown her feelings with caffeine. On the days she got home early she would pass out wherever she was be it the couch or the kitchen table and wouldn’t move for a solid five hours. If she was lucky, her brain would remain silent. If not, the nightmares would come. Then came bedtime and it began again. 

People had noticed the circles darkening underneath her eyes but knew well enough to stay silent. They couldn’t hear the roaring in her ears, the rushing sensation of standing too quickly and the constant feeling of darkness creeping up behind her. 

Gaby could imagine the pressure light of her own body lighting up; there was only so long a person could stand straight under the barrage of what can only be described as desolation. There were no safety harnesses in her line of work; being exposed to the belly of the beast opened her eyes to the worst of the worst. 

If there was a way to turn it all off, reset her engine, she had yet to find it. Sleep, they said. Avoid stressors, they said. They didn’t understand, the entire world was a stressor. Sleep didn’t offer an escape, it stretched and created an echo chamber of anxieties that were projected onto everyone around her. A simple action was analyzed a dozen times until it no longer resembled its original shape. 

There was solace in ice. A cold pack pressed against the back of her skull, a cool hand brushing her bangs aside in an attempt to soothe internal wounds. They said the world would end in a war so cold they wouldn’t feel the flesh being burned from their limbs, their lives yanked away when bombs were dropped in the name of liberty and freedom. 

There were days during missions when she wouldn’t fight it, simply allow her knees to buckle underneath her. A vulnerability reserved for the select two. They wouldn’t judge. Solo would hand her a glass of something or other and some food he had whipped up, Illya would tsk audibly and prod at the knots in her neck and shoulders. Even her skull felt tight, like a rubber band stretched around her temples in an attempt to keep the secrets inside. 

It was the way they functioned as a team that kept her sane. When Solo came back covered from head to toe in cuts and bruises, Illya would run a bath and Gaby would clean and nurse the wounds, even the invisible ones. When Illya’s knuckles were bloody, his entire body shaking from the strain of another Mist, Solo would acknowledge and validate while Gaby eased curled fists into soft hands. 

The KGB believed Illya’s loyalties had shifted. In a way, they were right. But it wasn’t a country that had changed his mind, not even the team though it was something he had come to rely on. It was her. 

Gaby, with her low ponytails and high standards. Her expressive gaze that saw through everything. He felt himself drawn to her, a magnetism he couldn't quite explain and wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

Gaby had been struggling, try as she might to hide it. Her eyeliner only accentuated the bags under her eyes and when Illya’s morning jogs through the city lead him past her apartment, it wasn’t unusual to see her lights on, having never turned off in the first place. He found himself going for runs more often both at night and in the morning, passing both his partners apartments in the process. Gaby’s lights were always on, the radio playing songs that reflected her mood. 

It wasn’t until two weeks after he had noticed Gaby’s demeanor shifting that Illya found the courage to stop at her door and knock. A KGB agent afraid of an East German woman, it was almost comical. He wouldn’t admit he had jogged up and down the street three times before calling on her. 

The next night he came again, a box of herbal tea in hand. His best memories of his mother involved a cup of tea; Illya only hoped the warmth of the mug and the scent of the herbs would heal Gaby has much as they healed him. He wouldn’t stay long, an hour at most before finishing his run, but the feeling of her grateful smile and soft touch of her hand on his shoulder would last long into the night. 

It became a ritual; each night Illya would go for a run and each night he would visit her. Eventually a knock wasn’t required, she would be waiting for him on the front stoop. They wouldn’t say much, just sit in each other’s company. The routine calmed Gaby and comforted Illya. On the nights they did chat they would tell stories of their past, skimming over the darkness to recall the light. 

Sleeping still took work and her nightmares didn’t stop. But every night she found it a little easier to lay down in her bed, and every morning she would remember less and less of her dreams. Occasionally Illya would be there too and she’d wake blushing, her heart pounding from an entirely different type of dream. Those were the ones she tried to never forget. 

When the KGB tugged his leash back to Russia, he would still go for runs and make a telephone call from different booths across the city, her voice keeping him warm among the snow and concrete. 

The pressure in her chest had begun to lessen and her migraines became few and far between. None of this escaped Solo’s notice; after all, it was he that designed his Russian partners jogging path through the confusing London streets and it was he who had casually mentioned the tea shop specializing in herbal remedies. 

Solo couldn’t help but chuckle. Waverly had gone from UNCLE founder to UNCLE father, viewing the three agents through a paternal lens and he himself had somehow managed to combine comforter and Cupid together. Illya would never admit it but he was struggling too and his late night talks with Gaby helped him soothe away the sting of spy work. 

His own insecurities? Well, those would have to wait. His nightmares rarely surfaced, buried as they were so deep under booze and women. He coped in his own way, loyal to his namesake, if he suffered he suffered alone. 

That is until one night a knock on his door proved to be the result of a grinning East German mechanic and a half-amused Russian agent, a box of tea in hand.


	6. Soap Rings Eternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to insomnia for once again being a muse (We have a love/hate relationship...)
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the incomparable and beauteous Diadema. You are a saint among people everywhere and this fandom is so much better with you in it!

“You _sure_ you’re okay, Gabs?” Solo anxiously rocked back and forth on his heels eyeing his favorite East German mechanic from the bathroom doorway. Gaby was dressed in her usual stripped pajamas but her face was unusually pale, her bangs plastered to her face with sweat, her cheek resting against the edge of the toilet bowl into which she had just thrown up. 

“As I’ve ever been.” Gaby said, the sarcasm lost in her throat as her voice came out a hoarse whisper. Illya was sitting behind her on the tile floor, holding her hair back and brushing her bangs away from her face. Gaby was too sick to understand what he was saying, but nodded nonetheless as Illya continued to run his fingers through her hair and mumble soothingly in Russian. 

“It was just something I ate,” she continued, spitting into the toilet and making a move to stand. “I’ll be fine once I brush my teeth and take a shower.”

“You need to rest.” Illya chastised, helping Gaby stand and ignoring the half-hearted swats she made to walk on her own. “You are dehydrated. You need water and sleep.”

“I hate to find myself agreeing with the Red Peril here, but he’s right.” Solo was looking a little pale himself, unused to being so helpless in even a minor situation such as this.

“I want to brush my teeth first.” Illya acquiesced, moving aside to allow her access to the porcelain sink but stood close behind her, his hands raised slightly as if to catch her should she fall.  
“Schiße,” Gaby mumbled. Before Illya or Solo could inquire, Gaby snapped, “I can’t shower, I ran out of soap yesterday. I meant to go to the store today, but-”

Illya nodded, cutting her off with hum of understanding. “Is okay Chop Shop, Cowboy and I will get more for you.”  
“We will?” Illya shot him a look over his shoulder.  
“I mean, yes. Just point us in the right direction.” Gaby would have laughed but the simple movement of wetting the bristles of her toothbrush had exhausted her. Illya seemed to sense this and guided her away from the sink and out of the ensuite to her bedroom. Solo reacted instinctively, pulling back the blankets and smoothing out any wrinkles before stepping back and helping Gaby into bed. 

“You two go, I want to take a shower as soon as possible.” The statement would have sounded a lot more authoritative had Gaby not had her face shoved into a pillow and her hand waving weakly towards the door. 

Illya hesitated.  
“You are sure you do not need me to stay? I can send Cowboy-“ an annoyed sound came from behind him but he ignored it, “-by himself.”

“No,” Gaby mumbled, rolling onto her side, her eyes already closed. “You can go. I’m just going to close my eyes for a little while.”

With that, Illya and Solo left Gaby’s London apartment. They had returned from a mission in Thailand three days previously and in celebration for their most recent success, Solo had insisted on dragging the pair out to every nightclub in town. Obviously, one of them needed a visit from the local health inspector. 

“The market is down this road here,” Illya pointed to his right, walking hurriedly around the corner. Solo was severely tempted to ask Illya why he was so familiar with Gaby’s neighborhood but decided this was not the best time. He would save it for the office at a later date when he had run out of material to tease him with. 

Five minutes later, Illya and Solo stood in the cosmetics isle of the local market staring down a wall to wall display of soaps of all shapes and sizes, perfumed and unscented, liquid and solid. 

“Do you know what kind of soap she uses?” Solo asked, still staring at the display.  
“No.” Illya admitted. “Do you?”  
“No.” Solo paused, weighing their options. “We could get a few and see which one she likes best.” Illya humphed, considering it. 

“No, I have idea.” He walked forward, picking up the nearest bar and bringing it to his nose to inhale deeply.  
“What are you doing?” Napoleon managed to choke out his question, coughing to hide his laughter as Illya placed the soap back on its spot and tried again with another one. “Are you...are you smelling the soaps?” Illya ignored him, continuing his attempts of trial and error.  
“It’s this one.” Illya said finally, holding up a small, inconspicuous bar wrapped in soft off-white paper. Solo shrugged.  
“If you’re sure.”

Another five minutes later, Solo and Illya were entering Gaby’s apartment as one would enter a place of worship. Quietly, reverently. Illya strode across the threshold, pausing before hesitantly opening the door to Gaby’s bedroom. She was just as they had left her, asleep in her bed and snoring softly. Solo poked his head around Illya’s bulky form and was pleased to see that some of the color had returned to her cheeks. 

“I will put this in bathroom, you wait here.” Illya softly stepped into the room, walking as soundlessly as he could to the ensuite bathroom. Gaby stirred, opening her eyes.  
“Illya,” she mumbled, half-asleep, her mouth breaking into a wide smile. Solo was surprised to see Illya return the smile, retracing his steps and moving instead to her bedside, kneeling gently beside her head. Gaby reached a hand up to cup Illya’s cheek, oblivious to Solo’s presence in the doorway. She smiled again when Illya covered her hand with his own. 

“You got to the market okay?”  
“Of course.” Illya placed the small box of soap in her other palm. Gaby glanced at the label and sighed happily.  
“You remembered.” She smiled again at him, patting his cheek gently before closing her eyes. “I’m going to sleep here for a while.”  
“Is okay, I will put this away for you.” Illya made to stand, turning away from the bed.  
“Wait, Illya,” Gaby’s eyes snapped open, her hand suddenly reaching out to grab his wrist. “Will you stay?” Solo couldn’t help but notice the look of absolute adoration that crossed the Russian agents features. He brought her hand up to his lips, brushing them gently across her knuckles before placing her hand back softly on her stomach.  
“I will always stay.” Gaby sighed, satisfied, and closed her eyes again, her breathing evening out. Illya obediently sat the soap on her bathroom counter before returning and seating himself in the armchair next to Gaby’s bedside table. 

“I’ll see myself out.” Solo whispered and Illya nodded, not looking up from Gaby’s sleeping face. 

Solo shook his head, smiling and retreated to the front door which he swiftly closed and locked behind him. 

“Lucky kids.” He chuckled to himself before placing his hands in his pockets and making his way down the street towards the tube station. Solo smiled again and began to whistle, mentally rehearsing his best man speech.


	7. Check In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broken leg is all it’s cracked up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, the pun was intended in the chapter summary. And no, I’m not sorry.)  
> This was just a little idea that I couldn’t get out of my head and had to share. No beta for this chapter so all mistakes are mine!

“Peril?” Solo paused, poking his head into the room that served as Illya’s office at UNCLE headquarters in London. Since the large Russian man had broken his leg a few weeks previously and had found himself unable to maneuver the cubical labyrinth, Waverly had moved a desk into one of the empty private offices closer to the elevator and insisted Illya use it until he could walk without crutches. 

“I didn’t know you were still here.” Napoleon commented, leaning against the doorframe. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed the sheen of sweat across Illya’s brow and the clenched nature of his jaw. “You look terrible. Are you alright?”

Illya nodded once, hissing out a breath. “I bumped against desk.” He managed to grunt. “My leg.” He sucked in a deep breath against what was clearly an intense amount of pain, and let it out slowly, his cheeks beginning to return to their normal color. 

“Sorry.” 

“No, no,” Solo commented, stepping into the office and eyeing his partner with no small amount of concern. “It’s actually quite refreshing to see you experience something so human. I was starting to believe they’d created you in some Soviet lab until you broke your leg.”

Illya huffed out laugh, and fought against a groan as another wave of pain hit him. 

“I was just stopping by to find Gaby. You haven’t seen her have you?”

“No. Sorry.” He stopped to take another breath, then continued. “She might have left already, it is late.” 

Solo nodded in agreement, glancing at the clock hanging from the far wall that read 7:54 PM. 

“Damn. I was hoping to catch her before the end of the day. I found an article in a magazine today that I thought she’d enjoy and wanted to give it to her before she left.” 

“There is always tomorrow.”

“Yes, but this is a _special_  article, Peril.” Solo removed the folded piece of paper from his back dress pants pocket and slapped it onto the desk, making sure the headline was in full view. 

“15 ways to please your man,” Napoleon chuckled gleefully. “Not that she has a man right now to please...” he let his voice trail off suggestively. 

“You cannot give that to her.”

“Why not?”

“She will murder you in your sleep.”

“It’s possible, but maybe she’ll find some use for it.” 

Illya scoffed, clearly about to bite out a retort when Solo flipped the clipping over. “See? A recipe for apple strudel. Some use after all.”

Napoleon glanced at his partner again when he winced. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes. Fine. Better if you were not pestering me.”

Solo raised his hands in surrender, retreating to the doorway. “I’ll leave that article with you; Gaby’s bound to stop by here first thing to check on her wounded Russian Bear.” 

“I am not wounded.” The American stifled a laugh; of course Illya would have a problem with _that_  part of his statement. 

“I’ll just leave you to your work then. See you tomorrow.” Illya grunted in response. 

As he made his way to the elevator and whistled a happy tune, Solo had trouble silencing the laugh that wanted to bubble out from his chest. He knew his partners well and he knew for a fact that Illya would never bump his broken leg against his desk, accident or not. He knew Illya would never be in the dark about Gaby’s location. He knew that Illya had to be mighty distracted not to threaten physical violence upon seeing such a promiscuous magazine article. 

He also know that those stifled groans of pain his partner seemed to suffer through were not of pain at all. And, he allowed himself a low chuckle at this, he knew full well that the soft peals of laughter coming from Illya’s office were from none other than their East German mechanic, currently kneeling underneath one love-sick Russian’s desk. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> XOXO  
> SMH


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